


Denial

by Trinity_Blaze



Series: Grief is a House [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst and Feels, Anxiety, Biting, Blood, Canon Compliant, Denial of Feelings, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, First Kiss, Frottage, Gap Filler, Hurt No Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mental Anguish, Missing Scene, POV John Silver, Shame, Sloppy Makeouts, Spanish-Speaking Silver, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, erotic asphyxiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 04:18:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7153184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trinity_Blaze/pseuds/Trinity_Blaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Shrinking in a corner,<br/>pressed into a wall;<br/>Do they know I'm present,<br/>am I here at all?</p><p>Is there a written rule book,<br/>that tells you how to be --<br/>all the right things to talk about --<br/>that everyone has but me? </p><p>Slowly I am withering --<br/>A flower deprived of sun;<br/>longing to belong to --<br/>somewhere or someone." </p><p>~ Lang Leav,<br/>L o v e  &  M i s a d v e n t u r e</p><p>John's infatuation with Flint grows every day; unfortunately, his courage does not. This is what happens when the body betrays the mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Denial

**Author's Note:**

> Missing Scene from 2.03

He’s replayed it in his head what feels like a million times since then. That moment across Eleanor Guthrie’s desk just after he’d told Flint that they might be friends by the time the last part of the schedule was negotiated. John didn’t expect it. A scoff, maybe. A snide comment. Complete and utter disregard all together. What he got instead was something for which he was completely unprepared: a sudden flash of heat just below the skin on his chest, and half a smile from Captain Flint.

 

The second time John had managed to see Flint break character, John had just taken a punch to the face for bringing up the dairy goat incident. Joshua then returned that punch, admonishing the man responsible for defiling the goat, sending the crew into a humorous fuss and earning John a grin and the subtlest of nods from Flint. Had John’s clumsy plan impressed Flint upon coming to fruition, or had John simply embarrassed himself? 

 

Whatever the case, Flint was now the Captain of a Spanish warship. No longer was he the man John had fancied himself beginning to bond with while maneuvering through Dufresne’s mutiny. He’d been candid with Flint the days before about his loyalty to the gold and his desire for freedom, but not so much about his loyalty to Flint himself. Perhaps even he didn’t truly understand it - that or his intrigue with the man. 

 

He had earned the crew’s favor since then, but the Captain’s was far less elementary.

 

“Last item,” John rattles off.

 

The crew stomps out of unison, notwithstanding their collective affirmation.

 

“The powers that be have chosen a spot for our anchorage: one mile north-northeast of the western tip of The Hog, well beyond the view of Nassau town,” John starts, takes a few steps forward. “Watches will continue on schedule while provisions are secured via longboat.”

Dooley scratches his temple, “Well, why ain't there been a vote?”

“I beg your pardon?” John returns.

“Well, I want to go home. Back in the bay. Ain't no one ask what I think about it.”

John tries to hide his exasperation as Dooley surveys the crew while speaking, trying to garner support from the other men. “We vote that fuck of a cap’n back into his station and he's already skirtin’ the fuckin’ rules.”

“We're sailing a Spanish warship,” John shrugs. 

Dooley wipes his mouth, anticipating more to the explanation. 

“Captain Hornigold's fort protects the bay from Spanish warships,” John elaborates.

Dooley simply blinks, waits for John to continue.

“I imagine the captain and quartermaster thought it self-evident that someone must go ahead and explain, so as to avoid a reactionary attack from the fort,” John finishes.

“We're flyin’ the black,” Dooley dismisses. “Don't it identify us?”

“You mean behind the giant red crosses on the sails?” John asks, more condescending than intended.

 

Scattered laughter about the hull prompts Dooley to stand up and defend his original notion, “I, want, to vote,” he insists, drawing out his words.

 

John readjusts his demeanor in the looming presence of the taller man, but another crewman steps in to clear the tension, “Hey, don't worry. We'll sort it out,” he laughs, grabbing Dooley about the shoulder.

 

John swallows the lump in his throat which seems to have amassed during the confrontation. He turns as a voice above them shouts of land, spots Flint watching him through the window of the door (his face not surprisingly etched in that perpetual scowl), and yet somehow, even though Flint turns and walks away without so much as a nod, John knows he’s being summoned. He looks around to see if anyone else has noticed. An almost dismissive smile creeps across his face, but he follows Joji out and heads toward Flint’s cabin without much hesitation. 

 

He rubs the damp palms of his hands on his shirt, the anticipation of ever being in close proximity to Flint having peculiar effects on him for days now. John likens it to simple intimidation. The fact that his heart races and his breath becomes thin in his throat whenever Flint so much as looks at him is just a part of it.

 

John’s never tried a man before. Sure he’d kissed boys before, but a few tedious fumblings in the broom closet of the cafeteria at the orphanage hardly counted as homosexual inclination. About the only thing he’d truly learned about himself through those boyhood encounters was that he was never really someone to care about; that neglect and selfishness were a part of human nature - especially a part of sex. So, John did what anyone who’d built himself upon the shells of such longing and despair would do: he used his good looks and charm to his advantage with little guilt or regret. 

 

Later in life, he’d found great satisfaction in how easily he could seduce men especially, but he had never actually seen those seductions through. It was more about the fact that he could achieve his ends without having to give himself away completely. That was enough to satisfy him for however long it would take him to completely consume his target. Sometimes women, but mostly men. The men were easier.

 

Captain Flint was  _ not _ one of those men. 

 

At least, not anymore. Perhaps before, when he’d lost his captaincy. Or perhaps when John had found him on the floor with Mr. Gates. Flint was vulnerable then - in Flint terms at the very least. Trying to impress him and figuring ways to get his attention had become part of the game for John since then. If he were being completely honest, the thrill of the chase enticed him as well - the rush of attaining the one man on the ship who made it a point to avoid John completely whenever he’d taken off his shirt. 

 

John had known all too well that he’d need to make himself valuable if he intended to stick around for the Urca prize, and now that he’d done that with the men, he was becoming increasingly consumed by his wonder of where he and the Captain stood. How was he to proceed now that Flint was indeed a Captain again, shrouded in Spanish leather and a new layer of seemingly unshakeable confidence? He’d be lying if he said it hadn’t piqued his interests almost as much as the gold.

 

Nevertheless, he tries to convince himself that it’s simply his need to secure his own future. If he could make Flint want him, need him in that way, he’d sleep easier knowing his hands were that much closer to the gold; to freedom. He’s positive Flint does not see him as anywhere near equal, and normally that wouldn’t bother John - he’s used to being underestimated - but he’s certainly known Flint capable of betrayal. Even after Miss Guthrie vouches for him, even after he helps Flint take the warship, even after he saves Flint’s life the second time, John’s still not sure if Flint wouldn’t one day turn right around and use that very same life to take his.

 

A sour taste coats John’s mouth on his way to the Captain’s cabin. He mustn't allow his misguided infatuation to deter him from his one true goal. The gold was only days away; the situation far too volatile to leave in the hands of a tempest like Flint.

 

John eventually finds himself in front of Flint’s cabin door, head full of what-ifs, that conspicuous lump in his throat finding its way up behind his Adam’s apple again. He doesn’t knock; he never knocks. He doesn’t know why. And Flint doesn’t ever say anything about it, almost as if he never expects John to knock either. John likes to think they’ve developed their own language with each other, one composed of subtle grins, eyebrow raises, long breaths, head nods, but he doesn’t pretend to completely understand Flint’s dialect just yet. About all he knows is that he has lost count of how many times he’s taken a gander across the ship to find Flint already waiting for it. The familiarity is new for John, but he goes with it. Whatever gets his literal and figurative foot in the door. 

 

_ I can’t help it. I see an opportunity, I take it. It’s a sickness, truly. _

 

“I need you to secure provisions for the men,” Flint starts, doesn’t bother to look up from his desk. John furrows his brow, turns to shut the door. 

“I’m aware,” he relays from over his shoulder. He pauses for a second and stares at his own fingers as if he doesn’t understand why they’ve just instinctually locked the door. 

“Since you’ve managed to become so highly regarded by them,” Flint adds, shuffling the parchments in front of him and knocking John’s thought clear out of his own mind, “I also need for you to organize two men to watch over the soldiers guarding the gold. I imagine with your expertise, it should be fairly easy for you to procure trustworthy ones.”

John narrows his eyes, turns to Flint, his head slightly cocked sideways in confusion, “I’m sorry. My expertise?”

 

Flint is silent and John can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. He stands there for a moment, searching the empty air between them for the answer he wishes he wasn’t already certain he would not be receiving. He decides Flint is taking a stab at him for being a thief but casually walks toward the bookshelf at the side of the cabin and pretends it doesn’t gnaw at him. He wonders if Flint will bother to look at him should he speak again.

“Anything else, your grace?” he pushes out, shooting a glance Flint’s way before plucking a random book from the shelf.

 

Flint doesn’t look up, doesn’t so much as acknowledge John’s presence. John thumbs through the pages of the slightly water-damaged book and angles his body around a bit, eyeing Flint from over the hardcover. The windows behind the desk cast a certain slant of light which catches in the stray hairs of Flint’s mane, and just for a moment John finds him tranquil and almost unrelatable to the legends. John’s seen what Flint is capable of, yes, but moments like these when he’s sitting quietly, reading, writing, studying a chart, or lost in his own mind whilst looking out over the deep blue, John swears Flint could swindle a man of lesser knowledge. John just so happens to be able to look deeper, to notice the embers waiting to be fanned behind Flint’s eyes, and he’s not quite fooled by Flint’s particular brand of reticence.

 

“Yes,” Flint finally says, yet again breaking John’s train of thought. John walks over to Flint’s desk and sets the book down, placing his hands on either side of it and leaning in a bit. He’s being extra attentive now - obnoxiously so - as if to call attention to or maybe even combat the blatant disregard Flint had shown him moments before. Flint, perhaps not realizing John had even been touching it until now, tightens his jaw at the sight of one of his books. Finally, he looks up at John. “After you return to the ship, with rum especially, I need you to inform the men that they won’t be allowed any time on land before we set sail again.”

 

John’s jaw goes slack underneath a heavy squint. “Me?” he whines. “I’ve hardly gotten into their good graces. I could barely defend your decision to one of them just a few moments ago. How do you expect me to--”

“Mr. Silver, there are many things I need to mind in order to prepare for the retrieval of the gold,” Flint interjects, “chief among them: making sure its location remains protected, and least among them: figuring out the means for which  _ you _ are going to help me do so.”

 

Save for the creaking of the ship’s wood against the sea, the room is silent. Flint sits back in his chair and fingers the underside of his beard as John starts to grapple with a familiar feeling of self-doubt. Does Flint even respect him? After all they’ve been through… He tries to shake loose the thought before it becomes a splinter, realizes he’s been holding Flint’s gaze for far longer than is acceptably comfortable, and allows his focus to drop to the book between his hands.

 

_ Well, now that I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain, I’m just wondering where you and I stand. _

 

_ Keep wondering. _

 

John quiets the gears in his head, looks up, starts to speak but the words catch in his throat as soon as he notices it. It’s faint, almost nonexistent, but it’s  _ there _ . That slight curvature of Flint’s lip sending John into an internal frenzy faster than he’d found the courage to complain about his orders. What was it this time? He isn’t being charming. He isn’t being assaulted by the crew. He isn’t shirtless. Does Flint simply enjoy watching John squirm? John wants to know so badly that he has to bite down on his tongue to keep from asking outright.

 

“It’s a difficult task,” Flint acknowledges, rising from his chair. He reaches across the desk and tucks his hand underneath the book that John has set there, momentarily grazing John’s index finger with the roughness of his knuckles. “But I highly doubt you’ll be needing to channel ‘La Nina de los Embustes’ to keep the men in line,” Flint heckles. 

 

John’s eyes briefly follow Flint over to the bookshelf, but the sensation echoing throughout, radiating from the point where Flint’s skin had just met his, forces John back into himself. Flint presses the book into the empty slot whence it came, seemingly oblivious to the goosebumps prickling along John’s forearm. John casually rolls down his sleeve. 

 

“Carajo,” he sighs.

 

Flint’s messing with him. John’s sure of it. He won’t give him the satisfaction. He’d seen what Flint could do to a man, how he could crawl inside his head and remove mountains of doubt, or simply shatter his confidence with a well-timed smirk. But not John - no, John knew this game inside and out. He’d spent his life playing this game. He’d perfected this game. And this off-balance version of John which seemed to dance in his place whenever Flint was around - he would definitely never do.

 

John takes a moment to pull himself from Flint’s desk, turns, takes a few labored steps, each one heavy like boots on the shoreline. He stops across from Flint and glances at him. He doesn’t speak; he simply searches. But he can’t read Flint like he usually can. He is out of sorts and needs a moment to regroup. Maybe some time at the brothel to remind him of the man he truly was, the man who’d laughed at all the men he’d managed to get just as worked up as he himself was right this moment.

 

“You’re angry,” Flint notes, turning to face John. 

John feels the hairs on his arms begin to bristle at Flint’s emphatic tone. He finds himself wishing he’d rolled down his other sleeve earlier. 

“No,” John replies, irritation thickening his lie. “I’ve got my orders, Captain.” He tries to make it to the door before Flint’s voice slows him down.

“If there’s something you wish to express, Mr. Silver, I’d prefer it done here, now, and not later in a childish act of defiance.”

 

John lets out a huff and feels himself begin to smile, the kind of smile one gives when they can’t believe something is happening. He’s searching for the words - he’s looking at Flint and scrambling inside but all he can do is feel: Frustration, arousal, bewilderment… Puzzled by his own uncharacteristic dumbness, he ruffles through the wavy hair at the nape of his neck and looks toward the door, which seems so much farther away now. He tries to move his feet again.

 

Flint fills the void, walks back to his desk. “If you find my orders unreasonable, I’m quite certain I can find someone else to fulfill them. Perhaps someone more willing to earn their position on this ship.”

 

Flint’s words pepper John in a way that causes him to spin around just as Flint reaches the edge of the desk, all of the syllables John could not find but a second before now bubbling furiously on his tongue. “Are you fucking serious?”

 

Flint gathers the parchments strewn across his desk. “You have a problem with my orders,” Flint guesses, his back still facing John. “Do you also have a problem with actually  _ earning _ your place on this ship? Or did you think your antics below decks were supposed to gain favor with me also?”

 

“Earning my place?” John exhales. “I had assumed I’d earned my place by pulling you from the brink of death.” Flint places the charts and maps off to one side of his desk and turns in acknowledgment of John’s insubordinate tone. John searches the corners of the room for composure, feels the rest of his face collapse around his eyes. “I’d figured I’d earned my place by warning you about Billy. Or keeping the rest of the crew from murdering you on the beach while you were unconscious.” His glare meets Flint’s again. “Or perhaps deciding to help you while you were on the floor blubbering over Mr.--”

 

John’s throat closes and he feels his eyes widen as Flint clears the expanse between them in 2 big steps and is in John’s space before his next word escapes his mouth. “All of these things you speak of,” Flint starts, his voice a low and steady growl inches from John’s face, “none of them would have happened had you not taken what hadn’t belonged to you in the first place.” 

 

John swallows, remembers how to breathe. “None of it belongs to anyone... We’re fucking pirates.” His voice raises an octave as if he’s just realizing it also. “There’s no honor amongst thieves.” He looks directly into Flint’s eyes now, chin up and unafraid. “And just how quickly does one forget that I’m the same thief who helped you take  _ this _ very fucking warship we’re standing in?” 

 

He holds Flint’s stare for a moment, pregnant breaths passing between them. Flint’s mouth is pulled tight at the corners. His eyes are lit up in anger, speaking worlds into existence which John knows in his heart of hearts he cannot fathom without his Captain’s help. John’s become used to it by now - Flint’s constant invasion of his space, Flint’s brooding disposition and contemptuous scowl, though they do still manage to send a jolt through him every now and then. He welcomes it this time, still intimidated but also exhilarated by Flint’s nearness to him. He can smell the leather and sea salt on his skin, feel the warmth of Flint’s breath as he holds back his words, see the flinch in his cheek and the shift of his glance as Flint looks at John’s lips, catches himself, unpins the tight wrinkle between his brows and ponders for a moment, ultimately deciding to back away.

 

John inhales atop the flood of excitement pooling at his core, both his breath and knees aquiver at the idea, the compulsion to lean forward and try to compensate for the slowly growing distance between them becoming overwhelming. He doesn’t truly understand where the grit is coming from, but he reaches through the volume between himself and Flint anyway. He takes hold of Flint’s shirt.

John, the Silver tongue.

 

He’d earned the nickname from a crew he’d once sailed with. A crew he almost ended up steering into complete annihilation with his recklessness. He’d realized it on his first sail, his natural ability to turn a mob, his knack for poetic language, his tendency to plant a seed and watch it grow in the weaknesses of men, but he didn't believe he could get into Flint’s head - not really. He knew gaining the Captain's affinity was a sound investment, but he’d never actually thought it possible. 

 

Now, standing there so close to him, his words having such an obvious impact on Flint, he found himself actually trying  _ not _ to take advantage of the situation. He’d struck a nerve and he wanted nothing more than to explore it, but he knew that was more than ambitious right now. This moment was far too fragile to tinker with; any amount of force could shatter it beyond repair. 

 

Flint looks down at the spot where John’s fingers are wrapped in his shirt but seems as if he can’t bring himself to look at John. He doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t move forward. He doesn’t speak. But John can feel the soft vibrations behind the fabric at Flint’s sternum. They’re intensifying. He sees Flint’s lips part but nothing passes from them but a wordless whisper. John tilts forward just a fraction of an inch, just to see if Flint will react. Flint’s eyes snap up to meet his. John is then gripped by a curious mixture: his overwhelming desire to apologize and the culpability in Flint’s gaze rendering him tongue-tied. So, instead of being awkward, John slides forward into Flint’s lips before he can finish his next cautionary blink.

 

Except, of course, it is exceptionally awkward and nothing like he’d fantasized. Flint doesn’t kiss back, doesn’t pull away, just stands there and breathes into John’s mouth. His heart is pounding so forcefully that John is sure the hand he now has pressed against Flint’s chest must be throbbing right along with it. His mouth begins to go dry just as soon as he allows an inch between them again. He takes in a few shallow breaths, realizes what he’s just done, can’t look up at Flint, can’t move his hand away from Flint’s chest - that heartbeat being the only thing he has to gauge Flint’s reaction besides the eye contact he’s lost the nerve to reestablish. He waits. He’s not sure for what.

 

“You’d better be off,” Flint says softly.

 

John doesn’t move.

 

Flint doesn’t move.

 

John inspects the hand he still has placed on Flint’s chest and tries to subdue its obvious shiver. He peeks at Flint’s neck just in time to catch him swallow, then slowly up toward his thoughtlessly parted lips, his nose, the freckles on his cheek hidden just beneath the stubble, and finally Flint’s eyes. He is met with what he assumes is the most cushiony stare a man who spends 90% of his time scowling can probably manage, but Flint’s eyes aren’t on John. He’s gone somewhere, somewhere that appears bottomless, black, and weighted, somewhere John cannot follow no matter how much the desire stirs him. He’s seen these looks before, these far off points into oblivion where Flint loses himself, places off in the distance where the sky and ocean meet that have absolutely nothing to do with the navigation of the ship. They plague Flint and make John feel helpless. And all John can manage to think of at this moment is how very much he’d welcome a frown, some ridicule, the punishment that was sure to follow his actions, but the last thing he wanted was Flint disappearing right now. Please, just, not right now.

 

He could only surmise that Flint had been operating under some type of honor code of which only he knew. John had assumed he’d been in the Royal Navy; Flint was regal in that way, proper, and not just in juxtaposition to the cretins surrounding him but noticeably so. And he’d had himself a nice puritan woman, despite all the other rumors that’d swirled about her. Flint was obviously groomed in another world - one far away from this one where honor, duty, and loyalty were paramount - and John longed to know where, when, how Flint had gotten here. How was it that he was made to board John’s ship that fateful day? But John remembers that whenever he’s tried to point that high powered perception at Flint, any sliver of vulnerability or doubt was immediately disguised with anger and more distance. And yes, right now that was the last thing that John wanted, but…

 

John follows Flint’s aimless inspection of the wooden cabin floor and notices Flint’s thumb flickering across his finger. The pinch in his stomach unravels a bit and he uses his free hand to wrap around Flint’s in order to quell his fidgeting. Flint startles, turns his head and looks John over, one eye at a time, port then starboard, as if he’d forgotten John was there.

 

John pulls his hand from over Flint’s racing heart and places it at the side of his neck where he can feel his pulse pounding. He glides his thumb across Flint’s cheek as if he could smooth his twitches away. Flint only flinches, blinks, stares. And John can’t read him, not when this venture into such unfamiliar territory has rendered him unable to even make sense of himself. John tenses as Flint slowly raises an unsteady hand and makes it to spread out over his. Flint shuts his eyes and lets a smooth gust of air escape his lungs. 

 

John is screaming on the inside. He can’t help but ache at the thought that it’s probably been years since anyone has even touched Flint in any way that wasn’t out of violence. Yes, yes, the rumors of the Barlow woman, but the way Flint was behaving right now, the way he was appearing in front of him - overwhelmed, trembling, pained - John was hard pressed to believe she’d ever actually taken care of him at all.

 

“It’s alright,” John whispers. “Whatever it is.”

 

He feels Flint’s thumb begin to fidget again and squeezes his hand tighter, wraps his other arm around the back of Flint’s neck and brings him into a hug. Flint’s tremors grow stronger in his embrace, but John hears him take a deep, shaky breath and a swallow and he knows Flint is still with him, even if it is in such a state.

 

“It’s alright,” John repeats, not really sure which one of them he is trying to convince. 

 

John wraps his other arm around Flint and kisses the part of his neck that is still warm from his touch. Flint is shaking like a leaf, but he threads his fingers through John’s curls and backs him into the bookshelf despite it. He stays in the crook of John’s neck, stills, as if he’s waiting for John to make the decision to take it there. John tries to catch his breath, his lungs tightening instantly with the feeling of Flint’s heat and firmness pressed into him on his own accord. He turns to look into the thin forest of flecks around the black of Flint’s pupils, then back down to his pink mouth, back up into his eyes, back down to his lips, and all at once John almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing with this moment. All of the sound goes out around him, amplifying the sensation of Flint’s staggered breath at his jaw. Has Flint ever kissed another man before? Are his tremors because he is just as inexperienced as John? Flint's fingers are softly but firmly wrapped in John’s hair, gently tugging his head backward, his body perfectly molded to his. He can’t help but feel as if Flint knows what he’s doing -  _ wants _ to be doing it with John - and John grabs handfuls of Flint’s hair and mouthfuls of Flint’s lips before he really even knows what is happening between them.

 

He gulps the air and studies Flint between hesitant meetings of their lips, watches his uncertainty give way to lust, feels his kisses becoming hungrier, and John’s eyes finally slip closed as he grants himself permission to be enveloped in the warmth of his senses. 

 

Flint makes no more effort to give John any chance at a breath that isn’t tangled with one of his own. He buries his tongue into John’s mouth, melts against him, bites his bottom lip, licks, tugs, crashes, sucks, and John is losing it, but Flint - the whole time Flint is standing there, towering over John, almost mockingly, hands now placed firmly on his bookshelf, no more shaking, in full control of himself  _ and _ of John.

 

He pulls his hands from the tangles of Flint’s now disheveled hair and aims for his shoulders, pushes his coat down his arms until it falls into a pile on the floor. The sound is louder and heavier than John cares for but he only allows it to distract him for a second; a second later he is searching for Flint’s hands to put them somewhere, anywhere on his body. He finds them and pulls them onto his chest, the scent of leather lingers in the steam between them once more. Flint begins to tug at John’s shirt.

 

“Dios mio,” John huffs. He grabs at the material surrounding his body as if its very existence annoys him, only manages to pull it over his head and from just one of his arms before he can no longer bear another second of not touching or kissing Flint. Flint rewards his efforts with that fucking half smile - the one John’s been coveting, the one John’s now certain Flint  _ knows _ he’s been coveting - and John claws into Flint’s neck and bites his jaw, beard hair slipping between his teeth as his shirt hangs helplessly from the arm he’d been too impatient to free. Flint grunts under his breath, helps him remove the rest of his shirt, still the very picture of composure.

 

John reaches for Flint’s shirt and tears at it with the same kind of resentment he’d had for his own. He impatiently hoists it up as Flint grimaces, the quick rotation of his shoulder aggravating his gunshot wound. Flint wraps a hand around John’s neck and squeezes, leans into him, cutting off access to the air necessary to apologize for his overzealous mistake. John lets out a labored sigh and Flint steals that breath too, biting into his bottom lip and igniting blooms of heat in John’s pelvis. 

 

Flint watches him, breathes into him, almost teasing John with the very air he is keeping from him. John shuts his eyes, a rush coming over him, the black haze creeping in from the outer corners of his vision and Flint’s teeth sinking into his flesh more than enough to get lost in. He licks his lips almost overcome by it; a familiar coppery taste slides over his tongue.

 

John still doesn’t quite understand the mechanics of breathing once Flint lets go of his throat, dizzied by the lack of oxygen and the faint scent of spiced rum left behind by his Captain’s lips. For reasons he can’t quite understand, John feels his senses heighten. The blood rushes back to his head and his throat is tingly, reminding him of the times Flint has held him similarly, the tip of his blade pushing into John’s throat. He trails his tongue along the part of his lip where he realizes Flint has drawn blood, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Flint grabs a firm hold of John’s locks and presses his tongue flatly into the part where John’s neck and shoulder meet. He gently bites into the awaiting tendon, tugs on his hair, and John can’t tell which of the two overwhelming sensations gets his cock harder. He rests his foot on the lower ridge of the bookshelf behind them, one hand firmly on the back of Flint’s head, the other searching for a way to undo the buckle of Flint’s belt in the almost nonexistent space between them. John intentionally grazes Flint’s dick as he searches. Flint’s belt clamours onto the deck.

 

He can feel him now - pressed up against Flint like this, drops of warmth between them, John’s trousers fighting against the pressure of his growing cock, his long black curls gently catching in the rough of Flint’s beard. John let’s a breath out into Flint’s lingering mouth, his nails sink a bit deeper into the back of Flint’s neck once he realizes that he now has both Flint’s hands on him. 

 

“Te quiero,” John sighs. “Te quiero tanto.”

 

Flint might not understand whether he is saying that he wants him or he loves him, but John slips his fingers into Flint’s trousers and wraps them around his cock anyway, deeming either interpretation acceptable right now. Flint lets out a low moan, kisses John deeply, leans into John’s hand, and doesn’t much seem to mind letting go a little of that control. But all John really wants is for Flint to knock all of those Spanish books off the shelf behind them as they grind together. He wonders if he could even get Flint to that point.

 

Just then Flint tucks his hand under John’s thigh and lifts his leg, the electricity under his touch sending shock waves up John’s spine. John massages Flint’s cock like it’s his own. It’s smooth and solid, and John notices it has a slight upward curve to it as he runs his fingers along the thick vein underneath. Flint licks the ridges of John’s ear and lets a stuttered breath curl into it. “What do you want?” he whispers. 

 

John tightens his grip around Flint’s cock and makes it clear.

 

His heart races behind his ribs as he realizes that he doesn’t quite know where to go from here. He’d never gotten farther than this in the broom closet. He’s suddenly terrified. He shouldn’t have done that. Why would he provoke him? And he doesn’t quite know if he should tell Flint that he’s never done this before. John inhales deeply and busies his mind by focusing on the muscles in Flint’s arms, the sensation of his tongue on his ear, the soft burn of his beard across his shoulder. He focuses on everything but his own stifling inexperience. He continues to stroke Flint’s cock and kiss him softly, hoping that’s all he wants, but when Flint presses him into the bookshelf and lifts John’s other leg, it’s obvious he’s not stopping there. 

 

John’s trepidation stifles him, his kisses grow less fervent, his hand loosens around Flint’s cock as he gets stuck in the cogs of his own inner workings. But Flint… Flint takes up the mantle.

 

He’s into it now.

 

Flint kisses John hard. He consumes him. John trembles and wraps his arms around Flint’s neck, squeezes his thighs into Flint’s hips and crosses his ankles behind Flint to stay afloat. He wants to tell him, to slow him down a bit, but he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have the chance to be this close to Flint again, and if he ruins this...

 

Flint grinds into John and it’s both pleasant and painful, the rolled up maps protruding from the slots just under the shelf of books crumple behind John’s back, but he lets a moan escape into Flint’s inviting mouth which is returned immediately. And John wants this, God knows he does, but his cock is so hard against Flint’s that the fabric between them might not survive the friction for much longer.

 

John can’t help but let his anxiety get the better of him.

 

“Captain,” John huffs.

 

Flint pulls John from the bookshelf and herds him to his desk, his intrusive albeit welcomed tongue in John’s mouth and John’s subsequent excitement proving a difficult match for the words John so desperately needs to formulate. Flint leans over him until John is up on the desk and back on his elbows. He goes from tugging John’s hair to tugging at John’s trousers.

 

“Wait,” John pleads between kisses. He grabs Flint’s hand. “Wait.” Flint pulls himself from John’s lips. “I have to tell you something.”

“Right now?” Flint scoffs, his gorgeous smile punctuating his disbelief.

“Yes,” John pants. “Right now.”

Flint shakes his head, grins, “You never did know when to shut up,” he teases.

 

Flints pulls back a bit from John and allows him to sit upright, but John keeps his legs hooked onto the backs of Flint’s thighs, still afraid he’ll muck it up and wanting to keep Flint as close as possible just in case. He looks Flint up and down, almost forgets what he has to say. Creamy skin and toasted freckles with flushes of deep pink at Flint’s chest and neck distract him. He reaches out and delicately glides his fingers over Flint's wound.

 

Flint keeps one hand on John’s side. “What is it?” he reminds.

John nods, swallows, “It’s just - I’ve… I’ve never...”

 

Flint lowers his head to one side, sags his body downward to try to catch John’s wandering eyes. John manages to reconnect, but doesn’t know what to do with the emotion pulling at his frayed ends. He’s not sure if it’s confusion or concern that slowly crawls across Flint’s face, but the tightening starts in at his eyebrows again and makes it way down to his lips. He stands up straight, looks around the room.

 

“This is a mistake,” he decides.

“No,” John protests. His eyes go wide as Flint pulls his hand from John’s side.

Flint shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” John blurts out, grasping desperately for Flint’s hand. “You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. I only--” 

“Time is of the essence,” Flint submits, pulls himself from between John’s legs. John hops down from the table and hooks a hand around Flint’s arm. 

“This isn't a mistake,” John corrects.

 

Flint avoids John’s beckoning stare and John tries to absorb the sharpness of that rejection. He feels that pestering lump in his throat clawing its way back up, heeds the distance between he and Flint multiplying, even though Flint has yet to physically move away from him. He has to speak - now - he’s knows it, before Flint completely detaches himself from him for good. He may not get another chance.

 

John strains, pinches his eyes closed and forces out a breath, “I’ve never done this before,” he finally admits.

He keeps his eyes shut for a moment, but the mystery floating in Flint’s silence eventually gets the better of him. He swallows, blinks, and braves Flint’s disarming gaze once more.

 

“You’ve never done what…” Flint presses, mouth relaxed and eyelids heavy. John looks away, lets his hand fall from Flint’s arm in defeat. “This,” he answers.

“Say it,” Flint pushes.

John inhales deeply, exhales with a forceful gust. 

Flint shakes his head, “You can’t say it, can you?”

John crosses his arms in front of him, a subconscious attempt to protect himself from feeling like an exposed nerve for Flint to flick. Flint walks slowly around to the other side of his desk, fingers trailing the edge of it in hesitation. He sits in his chair with a disagreeable sigh, and John can feel Flint’s eyes staring daggers into his back. 

 

“You don't hold a monopoly on shame, Mr. Silver,” Flint says flatly. 

 

John rolls his eyes. “I’m not ashamed,” he counters, taking note of the fact that his back is still toward Flint and the reaction is probably one he'd not have chosen had they been face to face. 

 

“Then look at me,” Flint retorts.

 

John feels himself begin to turn out of sheer spite, but the grip of embarrassment holds him in place. He hangs his head, sits back onto the edge of Flint’s desk with a sigh that speaks volumes over his silence.

 

“It’s a curious thing - shame. A shapeshifter of sorts,” Flint laments, the uncharacteristic softness in his voice shifting John’s posture. “You begin to believe in your intimacy with it, that you’ve got it sorted having birthed it yourself, nurtured it, lived with it, but then it is made to consume you, and the only solace you find is in the illusion that you’ve slaughtered it, buried it…” Flint trails off. John lifts his head, angles his ear toward him. “But it always reanimates into a truer form,” Flint concludes.

John scrunches his face, “You sound as if you speak from experience.”

Flint huffs out a slight chuckle, “One could say that, yes.”

“Yet, you constantly tempt morality,” John challenges. He turns to Flint, establishes eye contact, places his hands onto the desk like he'd done earlier whilst flanking ‘La Nina de los Embustes’, leans in. “Why?”

Flint lets go a short breath, “I don’t. Not anymore.”

“Really?” John scoffs. “Then what was that entire display earlier, when I kissed you?”

Flint exhales dismissively, “I was simply caught off guard. I’m not exactly keen on kissing members of my crew.”

“You mean men.” John added.

 

Flint’s cheek flinches and he disconnects from the intensity of John’s accusatory stare. He rests his elbows on his desk and clasps his hands, the thoughts he is visiting casting invisible weight down upon his shoulders and neck. John stares in awe, wishing he could join the war going on in Flint’s mind. Perhaps when it’d started, John wanted to manipulate Flint; he wanted to get his hands on that gold by any means necessary, but standing there across from him now, watching as Flint fiddles with the silver rings on his left hand, about the only thing John desires is to understand him, to know if Flint suffers the same afflictions as he.

 

“What happened to you?” he asks carefully.

 

Flint doesn’t look up. “I am simply stating that the shame which you believe to be yours… to acquiesce to ownership of such a thing is only to invite ruin upon yourself; to be complicit in your own destruction rather than the destruction of those who’ve - ” he stops abruptly, looks toward his bookshelf as if those words he is holding back are buried somewhere in the pages, “created the monster.”

 

Where did Flint go just now? John eyes the Captain’s fidgeting hands, trying to make sense of his cryptic message. Does Flint see him? John’s never been seen before, not in any way that actually matters. His particular brand of shame was deeply rooted, stowed away in various portals to his soul, each one crafted by a different creator. His insecurities, his loneliness, his anxiety, his fear of abandonment, his need for approval, his sexuality - no one had ever managed to uncover these shelved pieces of John kept hidden in the corners of his mind & heart. These were all things John would just as soon pretend didn’t exist before actually sharing with another soul. But here he was, wrung dry and laid bare, and in front of the only person in the world whom had actually seemed to care.

 

Flint dulls the sharpness of his stare and slowly meets John’s again, sending a chilled anxiety prickling into the back of John's neck and shoulders. What monsters? Who has Flint been fighting against? Are their monsters the same? John feels himself spinning into darkness, rolling questions he doesn’t have the courage to ask - not right now. He comes around the desk instead. Flint looks up at him, their vaporous connection exchanging more between them than actual words or physical contact would ever dare allow. John grabs the sides of Flint’s face and kisses him forcefully, determined to let him know just how unashamed he truly is. He nudges Flint’s knees apart with his leg and kneels down in front of him. 

 

“John,” Flint whispers apprehensively. 

 

John tugs at Flint’s trousers until he can wrap his hand around Flint’s cock, lets his mouth follows suit. Flint watches John as his head bobs up and down in front of him, he licks his lips and tries to keep his eyes open, but eventually he fails. He grabs a cluster of John’s hair and let’s out a moan that narrows John’s eyes. He grabs onto the arm of his chair with his other hand and lifts himself slightly into John’s mouth. John slides his tongue over the head of his cock, over the opening on top then back around the base. He isn’t able to swallow much of Flint due to his inexperience, but Flint doesn’t too much seem to care. John strokes Flint’s dick in compensation for his shallow allowance. 

 

He doesn’t actually know what he’s doing, but if any of the women he’s conquered have taught him anything, it’s what he likes to have done to his cock. John figures that this is a fine place to start. He studies Flint. And the want is there. The need is there. John recognizes it, and he is not about to let it slip away again. 

 

Flint growls and grits his teeth. He appears to want to push himself into John, but he’s holding back, and John doesn’t quite know if he’s grateful or annoyed about it. He uses one hand to stroke Flint in unison with his suction and uses the other to massage Flint’s balls. The swelling in his hand, the liquid building up behind the skin, filling Flint the same way Flint is filling his mouth, makes John suck harder and deeper, gently tugging with both hands. Flint’s leg quakes underneath him, his cock throbbing and jerking around like it has a mind of it’s own, his breath just as unsteady.

 

Flint lets go of the armrest and grabs a second handful of John’s hair. The muscles in his chest, stomach, and arms tense. He’s breathing hard now, every exhalation is a moan, and his eyes are on John. Flint is staring at him in a way that makes John feel like Flint thinks John is all that exists in this room, on this ship, in this ocean, on this planet. And finally. Finally, John feels that deep desire that has been elusive to him with every single woman he’s ever fucked. He needs to please Flint. It’s the only thing that will truly satisfy him.

 

John takes as much of Flint into his mouth as he can, fights his throat’s natural reflex to deny him further entry, blinks away the watery haze overtaking his sight. Flint’s tongue parts his lips and he let’s out a staggered breath. 

 

He finds the strength to stand up and he traps John between himself and the desk, his hand still bracing behind John’s head so that he doesn’t knock him into it. His pants shuffle down his thighs and pool at his knees, giving John full view of Flint’s thigh muscles as they flex and quiver. John presses into Flint’s leg and pulls his nails down along the skin, leaving soft pink streaks of heat to melt into Flint’s snowy surface. Flint looks down at him, fucking John’s mouth and fighting to muffle his pleasure. His moans graduate to labored grunts and he places one hand on the desk in front of him, thrusting into John until he feels hands on his lower back and ass, beckoning him forward still.

 

He’s holding back. John knows it. He has no fucking idea why. His cock is almost fully down John’s throat and the pressure building between them is unbearable, but Flint is still holding back. Still not wanting to be completely consumed by it. Still not willing to give up control. Still.

 

John will have none of it. 

 

He wipes away some of the saliva that’s collected between them and glides his hand between Flint’s legs. And he hopes that Flint knows - he hopes that he knows he has no fucking choice but to let go. John slips into Flint and the grip at the back of John’s head tightens to an almost uncomfortable tension. Flint’s entire body is shaking now and John worries that Flint’s legs may give out once he releases. But he keeps going - even as Flint is hunched over on his desk above John, even as he begins to whimper with every advance of John’s finger, even as Flint begins to curse him through every thrust of his hips, even as John begins to get lightheaded from the limited oxygen Flint’s cock affords him - John keeps going. He reaches up and claws a deep mark of ownership down Flint’s back, remembering how pain had provoked him earlier. 

 

Then finally.

 

Flint cries out. John feels one long, smooth thrust enter his mouth and heat floods the back of his throat. Then another. Another. Flint falls quieter, his short gusts of breath being the only sound left in the room. The volley between them grows shorter and less deliberate, staggering between the trembles of Flint’s body. He stays slumped over his desk for a few seconds before he stumbles back into his chair.

 

John swallows and wipes his mouth, marveling in the view of Flint’s realization that he’s been left in John’s wake. He knows Flint doesn’t like it, that he never wants to appear weak or vulnerable, but John smiles at him anyway, a soft, silent confirmation that he doesn’t think any less of Flint for it.

 

Flint catches his breath, leans forward, and John angles his face so that Flint can kiss him. “I’ll be leaving shortly,” Flint whispers instead, reaching down to gather the trousers at his ankles. “Please collect those men and wait for my briefing, then accompany me on the longboat.”

 

Flint gets up from his chair and tucks himself into his pants. John, confused, pulls himself from the floor, not sure exactly how to proceed. He feels an emptiness spread in the pit of his stomach as he watches Flint walk over to the bookshelf and collect his clothes. He sets his coat atop the ledge by the door for later use then puts on his shirt and belt, never once acknowledging John. 

John can’t pinpoint what exactly comes over him, be it fear, sadness, mild annoyance, or a bitter cocktail of the three, but he soon feels as if he’s falling in place and the panic laced throughout produces words before John can collect himself. “James,” he calls out.

 

Then he sees it. That look. He’s seen it before. Flint’s looked at Dufresne the same way before - at Billy, at Mr. DeGroot, at Mr. Gates, at John himself - all of them like pawns Flint was constantly deliberating on how and when to move. John watches that familiar tick amp up into the left side of Flint’s face again, and he knows he is no closer to Flint than he was before he entered his cabin today. Flint’s thumb scratches the inside of his index finger rapidly while he decides how to respond, but he doesn’t have to say a word. John already feels nauseated.

 

“Listen to me clearly,” Flint insists. “What happened here - Do not in any way allow it to alter your ability to meet your responsibilities to this crew. Do not allow it to convince you that I ascribe the same value to it as you do. And above all else, do not fall into the trap of believing that my lapse in judgment, however fucking pleasant the outcome, will eventually become habit.”

 

John tries to stifle his frustration. “So that’s it. It’s just business as usual?”

 

Flint catches his flittering thumb in the tight squeeze of a fist, tries to hold John’s question off by peering over to the bookshelf - and John notices, realizes that Flint is just as unsure about what’s happened between them as he. He approaches Flint in haste, afraid the moment will evanesce before he reaches him.

 

“I won’t tell anyone,” John promises. “We don’t have to--”

“Stop,” Flint refuses, glares at John. “There is no ‘we’ here.”

 

John feels his heart drop. He stares at Flint for a moment, just for a few seconds until Flint looks elsewhere.

 

“Will you secure the men?” Flint asks. 

 

John doesn’t respond. Flint momentarily surveys John’s silence from the corner of his eye but decides to look away just as quickly. John nods, stuffing his anguish down into an ever familiar hold. He turns away from Flint, blinks away the wells of pain trying desperately to escape, treads over to his shirt, bends to retrieve it, every action more excruciating than the former. He sniffles, discouraged by his inability to find space in his corners and edges to house emotions of this magnitude. He takes a deep breath, puts on his shirt, steels himself, finds the resolve necessary to play his part in the retrieval of that gold. 

 

That's all that truly mattered anyway. He won't let himself become distracted again.

 

He walks past Flint without bothering to infect him with another one of his beseeching stares.

 

“Mr. Silver,” Flint calls to him as he unbolts the door. John turns an ear toward Flint from over his shoulder but doesn’t bother to look at him. “Please do not address me so informally again,” Flint advises.

 

John feels all of the air leave his lungs, but he opens the door, pushes forward, and leaves the cabin right along with it. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hello, frands, 
> 
> This is my first endeavor into fanfic *flails in the darkness* I apologize for any mistakes as I am new to this and do not have a beta reader. (That is, unless you want the job *winks*) I truly hope you enjoy my labor of love. SilverFlint angsty angst is my absolute fave. 
> 
> I will go down with this ship.
> 
>  
> 
> ♡♡♡ Thanks for reading ♡♡♡
> 
>  
> 
> Love & Rockets,
> 
> [Trinity](http://crucifythenburn.tumblr.com/)


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